But heaven is an archive. And it has been full
Since before us, as the History of man,
Fills rooms and lush gardens.
Kohl Eyed Virgin Archivers
Look around to read, forever,
But Dearest, our faces are left to shine under
A moon, so wondrous, a face so besmirched,
That when they trace our skins,
With soggy fingers,
And read in morse, maybe remorse,
Eyes will stop lying,
And they will see their faces in Ours.
But this land will last,
Outlast you and us and them
And concrete will slide off the hills
And the crimson water will settle
And the airs will carry,
But only prayers.
It is here you will find me,
Or the me I would have you care about.
Hear the Spring give Summer a right to burn desire.
And hear Winter as it sings white over Autumn.
It is here the bells have tolled.
Come, dig, lie beside me.
It’s not safe outside.
Azhar Wani is an undergraduate student at Ashoka University, he is majoring in English.